S is For
by ShinkonoKokoro
Summary: John got the first postcard about two months after Sherlock's death.  rating for language


**S is for Shanghai**

The first postcard John got wasn't signed, just had a trite 'thinking of you' scrawled across the back. He kept it because it'd brightened his day and the picture was pretty. He tacked it to the wall.

* * *

><p><strong>H is for Hong Kong<strong>

The second postcard had the same writing as the first, when he compared them. It arrived almost a month after the first. On the front, it showed a lovely skyline of the city of Hong Kong, outlined with blues and reds from the lights. On the back it merely said 'thinking of you' again. John briefly wondered if this was related to that 'post secret' phenomena. But warmth unfurled in his stomach, and he tacked it to the wall next to the first. It brightened his day every day for the next week.

* * *

><p><strong>E is for Eilat<strong>

He'd almost forgotten about the postcards as another almost three months passed and there was nothing. He'd stopped hurrying for the post when it was clear there was nothing special enclosed.

But Thursday, here in his hands, was another postcard. From Israel. Same script. Clearly, his mysterious penpal was well-travelled.

John spent most of the afternoon wondering. Who, obviously. If random, how had he gotten this address. How did he pick John? What was he doing that he travelled so much. Why the seemingly random places? What did he do? Business? John sniffed the postcard. It didn't particularly smell of anything.

Why the inconsistent time length between cards? Male? Female? Secret admirer?

He was tired of mysteries.

John dropped the coffee table and made himself tea. Hours later, he picked it up tenderly and pinned it next to the other two.

* * *

><p><strong>R is for Rome<strong>

The postcard from Rome arrived a little over a month after the first, giving him no clues to the length of time between postcards. The Rome postcard was a pretty thing, showing Rome in lights. He turned it over. The message on the back was more cryptic. 'Sometimes, when one person is missing, the whole world seems depopulated.' It smacked him in the gut and he couldn't look at the postcard for a week.

He picked it up again and decided to search the line. Lamartine said it. Alphonse de Lamartine. French writer, poet, politician who helped found the Second Republic, wikipedia told him. Lived early 19th century. Oh. Cheeful. He ended his life in poverty, publishing monthlies. Kind of like he did now.

John grew tired of the inactivity and had been approached about publishing some of his and Sherlock's stories. So he did. And they sold. The world seemed ready to accept the real Sherlock Holmes.

He wondered about the sender of the postcards again, thinking...thinking of going to Mycroft. But he couldn't. This was his. And he didn't want others interfering. These were his gifts. _One person missing...world seems depopulated_. He pressed a fist to his stomach.

Either the writer was very lucky, or her or she knew John. There was no way to discern which.

He tacked it to the wall.

* * *

><p><strong>L is for Lausanne<strong>

Lausanne is in Switzerland, the back told him. It also told him, 'There is freedom in being very good at what we do.'

John stared at it. 'What _we_ do?' Someone he knew. Must be. He flipped it back over to the front, and found, scrawled out down in the corner, it said, 'But alone it is...' The rest was scribbled out.

John sighed and tacked it to his wall, fingers trailing over the other postcards. Five in the last six and a half months. He liked them. They were like little memories that when he thought about them, he felt special again. He'd started writing again after Eilat and before Rome. He'd made up with Harry after Rome. He had a pint with Lestrade after Rome too. Even seen Mycroft once or twice. This became the new method of measurement post-Sherlock. Cities to which he'd never been on postcards from an unknown person.

His mobile buzzed. Lestrade. He smiled and went to meet him down at the pub.

* * *

><p><strong>O is for Oslo<strong>

This one came only two weeks after Lausanne. Oslo, Norway. The front was some striking mountains behind a river. The 'o' was circled on the front.

He couldn't help the stab of disappointment when he saw there was no message on the back, just some hurried scribbles that in no way resembled words. John sat back on the sofa with his tea and let his eyes roam over it. Just in case he missed a hidden message. After an hour, he gave up.

His mystery person certainly travelled a lot. China, Italy, Switzerland, Norway, Israel. He always checked up on the countries for mysterious happenings, like the person was trying to send him a secret message or something like that. But then he forgot that he was done with mysteries and shut down the browser.

He'd left the flat when he realised that left him alone with Sherlock's things still spread out across the room. He'd tried packing up. Once. But then realised that that left him with far too much empty space to fill. So he left it. Could almost pretend someone else inhabited the space. But then...he was too old for imaginary friends, wasn't he. Too old and too practical.

John sighed and tacked Oslo next to Lausanne.

* * *

><p><strong>C is for Cannes<strong>

His mysterious person was in France. Where there was currently nice weather. London was miserable. He'd just arrived home, soaked due to a freak rainstorm while he was across town. His jumper smelled like wet dog. He left the post on the table and showered before he picked up the postcard at all.

It had the 'thinking of you' line across the top of the back. Underneath it said 'I'm sorry.'

John stared at it. Turned it over. Stared at it. Shook his head.

Since the first card, it had been almost a year. Ten months.

He tacked Cannes up in the subsequent line of postcards then went and made tea.

Staring at them above the mantle, he snorted. Shanghai, Hong Kong, Eilat, Rome, Lausanne, Oslo, Cannes. They almost spelled Sherloc.

_FUCK_.

John was on his arse, tea spilled, mug broken, feeling faint, and unsure if he wanted to laugh or cry. Either way his eyes were spilling over. A hysterical sound snuck out of his mouth before his hand clamped down over it. _Fuck_. It wasn't enough. "_FUCK_," he choked out, the word hanging in the air, testing the atmosphere. Found it worthy and penetrated to John's core. He let loose a mighty stream of imaginative filth before leaving the flat quickly. Cursing into the rain he bent his head and fought the elements instead of a bastard who played a cruel joke.

* * *

><p><strong>K is for King's Cross<strong>

He should have expected the postcard on the anniversary of Sherlock's death, flinched at the close-to-home location and his fingers trembled as he turned it over.

'Meet me. 3. Café on the corner.'

He stared at the specific message until Mrs. Hudson called out to him to shut the door, he was letting all the warm air out. He'd gotten so used to the vague, pick-me-up clichés that the sudden specific instructions were a bit of a shock.

But before he decided, he knew he'd go. He glanced at his watch and frowned. He would make it. Give that bastard a hint at his feelings with his fists. John stomped upstairs, dropped everything on the table and grabbed his jacket and headed to the café as instructed. Because this was not on.

The hurt and rage boiled during the taxi ride over. He was saving it up, savouring it. He smiled grimly at his reflection in the cabbie's mirror.

He paid the cabbie and marched into the café.

"Dr. Watson?"

"What?" His attention shifted from searching the people to the associate currently trying to gain his focus.

"You are Dr. Watson, yes?"

"I am. Did you need something?"

"I—no. No, sir. You were coming to meet someone, yes?"

"I'm looking for him. Or her, I guess."

"Right this way, sir."

John frowned, wishing in a sharp moment that he had his Browning with him, but followed the man into the back of the café.

And then out the back of the place.

"I'm sorry, where are you taking me?"

The man gave him an apologetic smile. "Sorry. Just please follow me, Dr. Watson."

John glared at him, but kept up with his pace, through the alley and into the next building over. Through that one, into the next.

"Okay, this is enough! I didn't come to be lead on some wild goose chase. What. Is going. On."

The man looked at his watch. "Go across the street. The hotel. Wait in the lobby. The chair facing the window."

"What the fuck is going on?"

"Please, Dr. Watson. Trust me?"

"Why! You've given me no reason to! I'm not—"

"Just go!" The man pushed him out the door.

John snarled but obliged his curiosity by heading across to the hotel and found a chair facing the window. Except there was already someone sitting in it. "Oh bleeding hell..." he said faintly.

"John. Sit."

He couldn't move.

Sherlock sighed. "Please."

His knees buckled, but he grabbed the back of the armchair and skirted around it to take him in. And dropped to his knees before him. "_Jesus_."

Sherlock scowled and rolled his eyes. "I'm _fine_."

"What..." He shook his head, words inadequate.

Sherlock's expression became hunted, desperate, hands curling in his lap around the cane. "John, please... I had to! I had to—"

"_Sherlock_."

His mouth snapped shut.

"You're alive."

Sherlock blinked and then his lips quirked, amused. "Yes. I think we've established that."

John gripped Sherlock's hands in his own crushing grip. "You're an utter bastard, you know that!" His voice didn't wobble. "I... What do I do with you?"

"Might we..." Sherlock looked unsure. "Might we go home?"

"Absolutely!" John got himself to his feet, taking in the man's bruised face and gauntness. "And get you something to eat as well. Jesus, you look awful."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock drawled.

"Don't you fuck with me, Sherlock Holmes." The other man started, eyebrows flying up. "What have you—you'll have to tell me everything. Then I might just punch you. For now..." John straightened and held Sherlock still, looking over him. "For now, I'm... I'm glad to have you back. More than you know."

"When you were missing from my side, the whole world seemed depopulated too, you know," Sherlock muttered, limping next to him.

John stopped, grabbed his sleeve. "Sherlock."

His eyes went wide. "Oh. You thought... No, that was written for me."

Rolling his own, John gave him a crooked smile. "You utter idiot." He slipped an arm around Sherlock's waist and walked out to find a taxi, standing closer than necessary. Sherlock didn't pull away as they headed, finally, home.

"My world's empty without you too," John said when he'd lead him up the stairs to their flat. Everything was suddenly brighter and warmer. The postcards catching his attention, he smiled. It should have been obvious. S is for Sherlock.


End file.
